Beginning
Even what I didn’t have
was what I had —
I said that,
trying to believe myself
When I say myself I mean us
because
those were days when we were never found
and yet we didn’t hear a voice
or at last listen to what
must be ourselves
and so I don’t think I can begin again
in the way I was
always beginning then
cutting through the forest of thorns
or is that too melodramatic
cutting through a patch of thistles
for thistles thrive on neglect
and their nectar is exquisite
to certain bees —
that was the most recent beginning —
next slicing through the briars of words
and drying the surrounding soil
How little was needed to start,
how much was needed to fail.
◈ ◈ ◈
The Gingerbread Man
Honey is a preservative
calling back a childhood
of thin wafers and
the man who fled from a baking pan —
right when everybody was ready
to take a bite out of him. It’s sad.
He ran and ran.
They chased and chased
and chased the gingerbread man
all the way to the river. Why so far?
Unless it’s for
the tragic moral: Never trust a fox
to get you across.
But then whom to trust?
The horse, the pig, the woman
and her husband —
all of them wanted
a fresh warm piece of
the gingerbread man.
He should have kept running.
Do what you’re good at.